Chapter Text
July 31st 1993 read the newspaper folded in Harry's hands as he trudged from the doorstep to the kitchen to pass it to Uncle Vernon silently before resuming stirring the eggs he'd been scrambling on the hob, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. In the background the Dursleys chattered smarmily to each other as Harry's thoughts drifted, skimming past the large photo of a crazed-looking escaped convict on the front page and idly wondering what he'd done to get there.
Today was Harry's 13th birthday, and while later he would be eagerly hiding the food that his friends (wow!) had sent him and grinning to himself, his mood was dampened by thoughts of the next few weeks. Even Mrs Weasley's sticky toffee pudding attached to a gasping Errol couldn't hide the fact that tomorrow Aunt Marge was coming to stay.
The Dursleys had been prepping for this moment for weeks. Much like before second year when they had made Harry practice, "I will be in my room, making no noise and pretending I don't exist," this time they were making him practice reciting the number of weekly canings he got at Smeltings and for what reasons - some of these included rough, unbecoming behaviour but Aunt Petunia had made sure he included derogatory mentions of his "cheeky looks" and "impudent appearance" just in case. Further, while Dudley was to be dressed in his best outfit, lounging about and smiling in a simpering way while Marge stayed, Harry was to be cooking, cleaning and absolutely silent unless spoken to.
According to Vernon this included, "Absolutely no funny nonsense unless you want the tanning of a lifetime, boy. You are to stay in your room and shut up unless we tell you to. You are not to take attention away from Dudley and if Marge so much as looks at you, you are to apologise for your presence". He'd leaned in close then, walrus moustache bristling with indignation, voice lowered to a deadly growl, "We all know now exactly how little power you have here freak, it would be good for you to remember that".
Petunia, long neck outstretched over Vernon's shoulder, face pinched into a scowl had nodded sharply and that had been that, by the time Marge would get there all aspects of Harry's life outside the Dursleys would be forcibly squashed into their cupboard, both physically and metaphorically.
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August 1st 1993 13:00
Harry lay face down in his bed, glasses discarded to the side, baggy shorts and t-shirt blanketing his small frame as breathed into the muffled, warm space of his pillow and gathered the courage for a long week ahead. Sometimes he preferred the apathy he'd felt to his situation before Hogwarts - after two years of knowing real happiness he was beginning to feel less and less able of putting up with Dursley summers, however short they were in the grand scheme of things.
"Marge, dear!" Greetings followed by muffled kisses and overlayed by a faint barking that made Harry's spine shudder floated up the staircase towards his ears. Four hours to go before he was to show his face.
Today he was to keep as still as possible and was only to cook dinner later unless Marge wanted to cast a critical eye over him, which she more than likely would even if just for the sake of Ripper's entertainment.
Fortunately, as Harry's muscles tensed in dreaded preparation, it seemed he would get a reprieve today as the over-the-top greetings and offers of tea and biscuits continued below. The anticipated bellow of, "Now where's that awful nephew of yours?" never came.
He raised his head and rolled onto his back to stare at the blurry ceiling instead - only three hours and fifty minutes to go! He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, glancing at Hedwig's empty cage, it looked like he'd be occupying himself by re-reading Hermione's and Ron's latest letters for the third time. He really wished he'd managed to smuggle more books into his pockets on the Hogwarts Express.
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As Harry dished peas onto three plates, swerving round Dudley's to avoid a kick, he fervently wondered if wishing he had the magical power to make his relatives disappear meant he was becoming a Dark Lord. It didn't even have to be forever he thought, as Dudley's gleeful jab to the ribs connected and Marge chortled at her boisterous boy, it could just be for a few more weeks and they could happily reappear at the end of summer. Dumbledore would never have to know.
He trudged back to the kitchen to pick up the roast potatoes with a grunt and imagined what Hermione would say.
"Oh Harry," she'd sigh in her disappointed-why-do-you-boys-never-do-your-homework tone, "You know that wouldn't work - Dumbledore would just make them reappear and then you'd have twice as many chores!" Yeah right, imaginary Hermione, Harry grumbled, can't do chores from inside the locked cupboard where he'd most likely spend the rest of his days if the Dursleys ever caught wind of such an attempt.
The golden potatoes tumbled to their places emitting little clouds of steam and in Harry's head imaginary Ron was no better as he waved a broken wand and accidentally created more Dursley's. Proper nightmare material that, thought Harry.
He was drawn out of his monotonus reverie, ladle caught halfway into the gravy pot, as Marge directly addressed him for the first time all evening, eyes twinkling "So boy." She said, "Do they beat you?"
"Pardon, Aunt Marge?" Harry said, remembering his manners last second.
Not that it helped as Uncle Vernon promptly clipped him round the ear, spilling droplets of carefully pooled gravy onto the floor. "Are you deaf, boy?! She's asking if that school treats you as they should!" He boomed.
"Oh - er yeah - sorry Aunt Marge, they cane me plenty, all the time even, they just don't know what else to do with me." Harry replied hastily, scrambling to wipe the floor and return to the kitchen corner before Aunt Petunia commented on the mess he'd made.
Marge eyed him doubtfully, "Hmm, well I still think it would do you some good to have the stuffing properly caned out of you on a more frequent basis if you're that healthy looking - don't you agree Vernon dear?" She turned to her brother with a wink, clothes twisting painfully as she did so.
Uncle Vernon nodded, frowning darkly in Harry's direction over his mountain of food, "Certainly Marge, most certainly, right terror he is or so I've heard - but they're doing the best for him I believe - was it four canings a week boy?"
Harry, who had turned his back briefly, snorted, imagine if Uncle Vernon ever met Filch - they'd have Harry in thumbscrews before they even introduced themselves.
Obviously he hadn't been as quiet as he thought because Marge chortled. Then in a prim, tight voice more suited to Petunia she stated, "Listen to that ungrateful brat, just as no good as his drunkard parents before him, I really think you're too generous for your own good Vernon, dear, I'd recommend daily beatings at least." She took a deep breath and continued loudly, "I'd have thrown the boy out to somewhere much more suited to his rough type long before now - he'll get nowhere just like your useless sister Petunia!"
Harry whirled round before he could stop himself, all thoughts of Hogsmeade permission and punishments fleeing his mind as he stared directly at the spiteful woman sitting amongst his other hateful family members.
"What did you say about my mum?" he ground out.
Vernon's face purpled, whilst Petunia's whitened eerily and they both began to talk over each other, various threats of sending him to his room cut across by Marge's smug voice "See - look at him now - that school needs a firmer hand -" she pointed right at him, "useless boy, a product of useless, drunkard wastes-of-spaces."
For a moment the room was still, Harry felt as if he was floating in water, trying to see through the murk as his vision swam, before a loud bang echoed through the room and the dining chair Marge was sat on exploded violently. He gazed in horror as splinters embedded themselves in the floor, the ceiling, the Dursley's plates while one splinter sailed beautifully into the large forkful Dudley was just about to shovel into his face.
Vernon was up and across the room in a second, his sister splayed, ruddy-faced and shocked on the floor as wooden chunks fanned out and Ripper's whimpers echoed from behind her. Harry blanched at his furious relative and cringed, but found his feet were already moving him out the room and away.
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He sprinted toward the stairs, already prepared for the footsteps thundering after him. His breathing was coming harsher and harsher as he swiped his sweaty hair back from his forehead and took the steps two at a time. Harry skidded into his room, slamming the door, heartbeat pounding in his chest at the loud shouting he could hear surrounding him.
Stumbling backward and again wiping his face, Harry was shocked at a coarse feeling of scrabbling roughness on his palms.
As he paused and looked down at his hands he realised he'd dropped his glasses in his haste to get out of the room and could only vaguely make out his tan skin turning an eerily darker shade. However he didn't have time to contemplate it further, as the footsteps outside stopped. Hastily he looked up and threw himself against the door just as Vernon reached it - blundering incoherently.
Any other day Harry is sure his Uncle would've barged right in, moustache bristling, and shouted himself hoarse for a minimum of twenty minutes. Luckily for Harry's eardrums he settles for thumping his large fist on the door twice and yelling, "And you'll be in there for the rest of this summer and next boy - don't you think you won't!"
From where Harry has curled up on the short, blue carpet he then starts to hear each bolt screech into place as usual, denoting the banality that the rest of his summer would contain.
However, by the third bolt, Harry is beginning to realise that something is really wrong with his ears as well as his eyes. What is normally a commonplace, dull slide of metal on metal - signalling a week of hunger - is beginning to reach an unbearable pitch and he clenches his hands over the sides of his head in pain as the grating sound vibrates through him.
The fourth lock slides in with such a squeak that it drills into the side of Harry's skull and his ears begin to twitch and flick in agitation under his palms, sending nervous shivers down his spine. With mounting horror as he looks down at his bare legs, he realises it isn't his eyes that are the problem, his whole body is darkening, seemingly beginning to sprout thick, black fur and shrinking. His joints are popping with the familiar ache of the polyjuice potion they'd taken to trick Malfoy with last year.
In horror, as his head shrinks into his neck, he remembers Hermione's mishap at the time - and how long she'd been in the hospital wing for afterwards. He had no idea what he'd have to do if the Dursley's saw him like that - freak wouldn't even begin to cover it.
His cheeks tug and itch in a disgustingly uncomfortable manner and Harry has enough time to register his confusion at not having been allowed to eat or drink anything for hours. It couldn't possibly be polyjuice potion was his last thought before a horrific tingling started in his tailbone and he passed out.